


. heartache always feels the same .

by bird_on_a_wire



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25316503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bird_on_a_wire/pseuds/bird_on_a_wire
Summary: Written for the TLK Fanfic Fest - Round 2 prompt: "Brida/Ragnar, on Ragnar’s ship and sailing to wealth and freedom, Ragnar begins to notice Brida... and she begins to notice him back.""Little Brida," he sighs, and she wonders if it is a term of endearment or a reminder.
Relationships: Brida/Ragnar the Younger (The Last Kingdom)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15
Collections: The Last Kingdom Fanfic Fest





	. heartache always feels the same .

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kirsten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirsten/gifts).



There are still tears in Brida's eyes when they arrive at Ragnar's ships in the early morning light. They are part sorrow for the love she has lost, part anger for the choice Uhtred has made, a decision that she has known for some time now would never include her. And yet she'd hoped, prayed to the Gods he would see the right path, that she had seen the vision wrong. 

"What do you think?" Ragnar asks. His arm is tight around Brida's waist, and he pulls his horse up to stop on the crest above the bank of the river. The red and white sails whip in the wind, the ships are well made and sturdy, just as they had been in her vision. 

"You have done well for yourself, Ragnar," Brida says, turning her head back to look at him. "Your father would be very proud of you." A tear slips down her cheek, that overwhelming grief of the loss of the only family Brida has ever known bubbling up. 

Ragnar touches her cheek, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing away her tears. "No more crying, Little Brida. You are free now." And whether he means from England, or Northumbria, or Uhtred himself, Brida does not know, but she nods and turns back to watch the ships as they ride down toward them. 

The crossing is harder than Brida imagined it would. On the days when the sun shines, and the wind is right, Brida loves to stand at the front of the ship. The spray of the water and the wind whipping her unbound hair around her in a swirl. But the nights are cold, and no matter how many wool blankets or furs she wraps around herself, she cannot get warm. 

After the third night, Ragnar strips the blankets and furs off her despite her protest. He sits with her and pulls her into his side before wrapping them together. "Better?" Ragnar asks, smiling at her. Ragnar is always laughing, and Brida wonders if that is what freedom and wealth have given Ragnar, the ability to laugh even though he has lost his family. 

"Better," she replies, allowing herself to enjoy the warmth of his body against her side. There is a familiarity in his scent as she snuggles into him. There is the ever-present smokiness of their fire the night before, mixed with sweat and the smell of leather. 

"The last time we sat like this was in Loidis, and you were small enough to sit on my lap." Ragnar's arm holds her close, and he leans over to kiss the top of her head. 

"I'm no longer a child," Brida says, surprised by the defensiveness in her voice. "Uhtred and I…" 

Ragnar hums, nodding. "I assumed. He has loved you for a long time. Since the beginning, I think." 

"Not anymore." 

"You know that is not true." 

"I do not know what is true anymore. Uhtred needed a Saxon wife. Not an East Anglian wanting to be Dane." Brida pulls away from him, turning her body toward the side of the boat. Ragnar pulls her back to him, his hand on her face, drawing her gaze up to meet his. 

"You are a Dane, Brida. One of the fiercest I've met." 

His eyes travel over her face in a way she has not seen him do before. The muscles in his hand resting on her cheek flex as if they wish to move, but he steals against them. It is then that Brida feels it, the beginning of the shift between them. 

The moment passes, and Ragnar kisses her forehead. "Little Brida," he sighs, and she wonders if it is a term of endearment or a reminder. 

In Irland, there is a celebration of Ragnar's return. His hall reminds her of their home is Loidis, but he is no longer Young Ragnar, Brida sees that now. He is Ragnar Ragnarason. A man in his own right. A man who has fought hard for the wealth and freedom he has always dreamt of. And his men love him, that much is clear, and the women too. Those married to his men show their gratitude with words of thanks and gifts. The unmarried women's appreciation is as Brida expected. 

At night, Brida sleeps in the hall, because while he does not call her sister, he tells all who will hear it how dear she is to him, and how she is finally where she belongs.

Despite her own gratitude for the life Ragnar has given her, she does not enjoy hearing him hump the women who flock to him. And yet, at night, she lies still as possible, barely breathing as she listens for the quiet sounds of their pleasure from across the hall. The women are all the same, their voices have begun to blend together, and Brida can no longer tell who is with him on any given night. But it is not the women's voices who keep her awake. It is not the women's voices that make her slip her hand beneath her breeches, touching herself with desperate furtive strokes, drawing out her release until she hears his groan as he finishes. 

She tells herself it reminds her of her time with Uhtred, the longing to be taken and loved is a painfully sharp and throbbing wound. But as the time passes, what she feels, or felt, for Uhtred fades, and the longing belongs to her alone, and despite how hard she tries to fight it, the way she looks at Ragnar has changed. 

"You're quiet these days," Ragnar says to her when they are riding one morning. It has been almost eight moons since they arrived in Irland, though in the past few Brida has been spending her time with Jackdaw, one of Ragnar's men, learning everything she can about how to use a sword and an ax. 

"Am I?" She asks, looking at him quizzically. "Jackdaw would disagree with you, I am always cursing him to the gods." She laughs, perhaps louder than necessary, and then notices Ragnar is not laughing with her. "What?"

"Are you his woman?" The question surprises her, and Brida gapes at him, but there is no joking expression on his face. In fact, he is the most serious she has seen him. His eyes looking at her with an almost furious intensity. 

"Are you serious?" Brida feels a heat crawling up the back of her neck. She wants to call it fear, that she's done something to anger Ragnar, even though she hasn't. Jackdaw has only ever been like a teacher, a friend perhaps, never a lover. She cannot allow herself to resume the look in his eyes is anything but anger. To presume it is more is a dangerous path. 

Ragnar does not answer at first but tilts his head for her to follow, his pace picking up speed. Brida is quick to match him, following him over several hills before he dips his mount down into a wooded valley. 

"Nothing is happening with Jackdaw," Brida says when they dismount their horses and tie their reins to a low hanging branch. "I swear it, Ragnar." 

"The men talk, Brida," Ragnar says, his hands resting on his belt. 

"Let them talk," scoffs Brida. "I will cut Jackdaw's stones off for spreading such nonsense." 

Ragnar sighs and shakes his head. "What am I going to do with you, Brida?" He's smiling now, but there's a resigned look in his eyes. 

Brida shrugs, "What is there to do? And what business is it of yours? You seem tired these days. Not enough sleep." She regrets it, the words leaving her lips too fast for her to stop them.

"Do you have something you wish to say to me?" Ragnar raises his eyebrows at her questioningly.

"No." She stares at him defiantly, if she believes her lie hard enough maybe he will as well. 

"Are you jealous of the women in my bed?" Ragnar asks, moving toward her, and it reminds of a wolf stalking toward its prey. 

"Are _you_ jealous?" He's right in front of her now, her back against a large alder tree, so close she can see the detailed stitching around the collar of his tunic.

"Yes." 

Her eyes dart up to his gaze. "Ragnar…" She can barely find her voice, a fact which both frightens and annoys her. What of the promises she made to herself so many moons ago? She had promised herself that she would not allow her heart to belong to another son of Earl Ragnar who does not love her as she wanted to be loved. She could not bear it.

"I know," he breathes, and his forehead drops to rest against hers, though his hands remain at his sides. "I know I should think of you as a sister, or as Uhtred's...but I cannot."

"I am my own woman, Ragnar." She presses her hands to his face, looking up at him. "I belong to me, and no one else." 

He presses his hand over hers, warm and large. He turns to kiss Brida's palm, a simple press of his lips on the blisters and calluses she's developed from all her training. "You are a woman," he agrees, his hand cupping the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. "A beautiful woman." 

"Have you only just noticed?" She teases, and it is with that familiar laugh that he kisses her. They waste no time with shy hesitation, Ragnar's tongue licking into her mouth with teasing affection. He is a skilled kisser, his teeth nibbling at her lips, her jaw, dragging them along the skin just below her ear. 

"I want to devour every part of you," he growls, and his other hand wraps around her, pulling her right up against him to fit his muscle hardened thigh between her legs. Brida moans into their kisses; her cunt is aching, and rocking herself against Ragnar's thigh provides a small amount of relief, but it is not enough. "I want to feel you." He continues to kiss her as his hands pull at the laces of her leather vest until it falls loose somewhere at her feet. "I want to taste you." He draws one breast up and out of her tunic, squeezing and moulding her flesh in his hand. 

The rosy pink tip of her nipple is drawn tight and hard from the chill in the air and the aching want of Brida's desire for him. He licks over it with the flat of his tongue, teasing it with swirling strokes until suckling it into his mouth and Brida's back arches, the sensation shooting straight to the throbbing need between her legs. 

He does the same to her other breast, and by then, they have fallen to their knees in the grass. Ragnar's bare chest is warm under Brida's hand as she touches him, her fingertips learning the feel of his skin and the muscles below it. She memorizes the feeling of each scar, pressing her lips to every one of them until she bites playfully at his hip, pushing him onto his arse, his back now against the tree. 

Standing, she strips out of her trousers, her shirt, thankful for the glen's privacy. When she settles onto his lap, Ragnar has already freed his cock from his trousers, slowly stroking himself between them. 

"Yes?" He asks her, and she nods, lip caught between her teeth. "Say it," he groans, even as she's climbing over him, his cock resting against the dip of her entrance. 

"Yes, Ragnar," she breathes, her words hot against his ear, his hands are tight on her hips, and he pushes up into her with one sharp thrust, filling her fully and completely, finally satiating the ache that has haunted her for so long. 

Ragnar's groan is loud and wild, and he takes her mouth again, roughly kissing and biting. His arm circling her waist, lifting her up before thrusting back up into her. His other hand slides along her thigh to her arse, grabbing rough handfuls of her flesh as they move together. Brida's nails dig into his shoulders, and she throws her head back, her release so close to the edge. Ragnar's hand slides up her back and into her hair, pulling her in close to him. 

"Ragnar," she pleads, their foreheads now touching. "Please. Don't stop." 

"Are you mine now, Brida?" His own breathing is short now, ragged. "Are you with me?" His hand leaves her hair to slip between their bodies, rubbing his thumb where she needs it most, and then Brida is lost, tumbling over the edge of her release, her body alight in the sensations that Ragnar's touch, his body, pulls from her. He growls loudly, crushing her to him as he spends, his body jerking against her. 

They lie longer than they should under the alder tree, Brida's back against Ragnar's chest. His arms circle her, one palm resting flat over her heart, the other on her stomach. "The gods are good to me," Ragnar says eventually, kissing her neck and shoulder before they dress. "I should have listened to them sooner." 

Brida smiles pleased at his words, but deep in her gut, there is a twinge, for the gods play with mortals as children play with poppets, for their own amusement and for reasons one can never understand. 

"It will be the harvest sooner than we know," Brida says, pushing the gods from her mind as they ride back home. "A good time for celebrations." 

Ragnar smiles at her with an amused look on his face at her forwardness, the insinuation of a wedding. "It is indeed a good time for celebrations," he says, reaching for her hand, pressing the back of it to his mouth with a kiss. "We should be back by then." 

"Back?" 

"We are headed to England. Earl Guthrum needs our help."


End file.
